


2017

by ghee (sabakunoghee)



Series: A Better Place for You and Me 🌸 [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Reminiscing, Slow Build, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22663696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabakunoghee/pseuds/ghee
Summary: How could he find something he didn’t know?(There were things which lasted for a moment, but worth forever.)or,Two long-lost souls (finally) found each other.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: A Better Place for You and Me 🌸 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669978
Comments: 87
Kudos: 239





	1. To Find You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reincarnation AU with a century-time-gap just because I don't like tears. Pardon me. Un-betaed we die like soldiers.

He was dreaming the same, exact dream,

He _saw_ his tired back, walking in silence, on the bed of green grass, slowly reaching a lonely tree. He sat there for a while, in solace, watching the white and blue horizon before opening his bloody grip. _A golden ring_. Smeared with redness, tainted by mud. His other hand reached into his breast pocket, was a black and white picture of his family, printed on an old, thick paper. He saw this scene over and over again, and he knew that he would fold the photograph and discarded – _he didn’t know why_ – but he never let go of the ring. He cried as he grasped the memento of his long-lost brother; _ah,_ there it was. The ring belonged to someone he couldn’t see anymore. He didn’t even have enough time to properly bury him.

 _‘I am so sorry,’_ he heard his trembling voice, murmured the same sentence until words lost their meaning, _‘You should be the one who reunited with your big brother,’_ he was weeping hard, ignoring dust and dried blood in his eyes, _‘I should’ve not left you, I should’ve not trusted the Huns, I only turned around for ten seconds, for Christ's sake, I should’ve— it should’ve been me,’_ his back, his shoulder, he was violently shaking as he burst into tears, for he never allowed himself to be this vulnerable when he carried the task; the impossible, suicide mission, _‘I wish I could replace you; I wish that bastard stabbed me instead of you, he should’ve killed me.’_

_‘Not you.’_

_‘I’m sorry, Blake, I’m sorry.’_

He couldn’t save his comrade, and war left a scar.

A deep, wounded, _red, red, red_ scar.

Awakened by a sharp gasp, William Schofield thought he was murdered in his sleep. He quickly jumped from his bed and let out an exhausted sigh. Two seconds were all he needed before lightly hitting the back of his head, a weak attempt to make himself sure that the graphic, vivid view of the aftermath of the war, was a mere nightmare.

Not exactly a ‘mere’, for he had been haunted by those dreams since he was six,

It was blurry, at first, a fragment followed by another. Sometimes, he was out of breath, running without turning back, fiery explosion behind his shaky feet. At another time, he was hugging a rifle, waiting for the perfect time to come out from the trench. Day by day, those dreams became more intense, it reached the point where Schofield couldn’t determine the border between dream and reality. The pain he experienced in his slumber slowly influenced his physical body, right after he woke up, the throbbing sensation stroke his left chest. It was getting worse every time he tried to remember as if he was trying to compile a scrambled puzzle.

“…who is Thomas Blake?” for instance, the name which suddenly appeared from nowhere. As he hummed the name, Schofield felt his heart pounded faster than usual. Getting used to this ‘symptom’ for more than a decade, he knew what to do; Schofield sat on the edge of his bed, patting his chest several times.

Yesterday, a blooming cherry tree appeared in his dream, and today, a specific _name_.

Schofield huffed heavily before starting his usual day. He slightly glanced at the digital calendar he placed on a messy work desk, alongside a laptop and some scraps – _the 6 th of April_, his brows furrowed as he tried to remember the impossible. He turned off the alarm, grabbed a towel, then headed to the bathroom. His mind wandered through time and space, as he washed under the warm shower.

It was just another day in modern society – Western Europe as the model of world industrialization. London, the city that never slept, where people controlled the first hour of their day by a simple click of their thumbs. Information was easily accessed thanks to the wireless connection installed in every inch of the town; there, how Schofield promoted his small business, by advertising his café through the web. It was around eight in the morning when he flipped the signage from ‘closed’ to ‘open’, before wearing his apron and turning the coffee machine on. Schofield proudly stared at the vintage-themed interior he designed himself. His dream– _not the one with blood and guns_ – to run his own brand finally came true.

Schofield didn’t hire anyone yet, so he was always busy almost all the time.

When he wasn’t serving the customer, he would stay in the kitchen, roasting some beans. In his spare time, he swept the floor or cleaned the windows – anything to keep himself occupied. Schofield couldn’t explain it well, but today was _different_ in a bizarre way; he couldn’t help but anxiously looked at the ticking clock.

_What am I waiting for?_

The scent of robusta usually soothed him, but not today.

He shook his head, struggled to ignore the urge to _wander_ – how could he find something he didn’t know? (But his heart knew something was _missing_.) Those dark blue eyes, somehow, glued at the direction of the main entrance. He could almost smell the flowery scent from cherry trees he planted on the front yard.

“Get a grip, William,” he warned himself and decided to check his inventory. It was Saturday, so the café wouldn’t be too crowded until noon. He squatted behind the counter and opened the bottom drawer to made sure he had enough stock of sugar and syrups. The chiming sound of the classic bell on the front door echoed indicating his first guest just came in. Schofield’s hands were clocked up with bottles made of glass, _that was why he whined a little,_ so he shouted from his hidden position, “Coming in a second!”

“It’s okay, take your time.”

Schofield’s brows furrowed. It was a man’s voice, both masculine and soft at the same time… _no_ , what made him stuttered was – the vocal was familiar. _In an unfamiliar way._ Schofield knew it made no sense at all and his mind was storming with prejudices. He stood up, back facing the customer, for some reasons he found it hard to turn back. Schofield inhaled deeply, obviously didn’t know what he would face, and—

“Welcome to—”

He held his breath,

The man before him was – a refined gentleman, dressed in a polo shirt and sports jacket, which wrapped his mesomorph figures quite perfectly. He was a little bit shorter than the barista, with mellow eyes and chubby cheekbones. His brunette, messy hair trapped white cherry petals and his lips; Schofield didn’t realize that he stared inappropriately too long at those full, pink-pouty lips. The customer cleared his throat and it snapped Schofield back to reality. He smiled, _awkwardly_ , as he tried to calm himself. He didn’t mean to exaggerate it when he said something was rioting inside his stomach and he could throw up at any time.

“—The No Man’s Land,” Schofield finally finished his sentence and it was worth a medal, for sure.

“Quite a name for a coffee shop, isn’t it?”

Schofield lightly chuckled at the commentary, “Well, it _did_ attract a customer, I take it as a compliment.”

“It surely is,” the new guy giggled as well. He took a second to scan the menu board before making a decision, “I’d like a hot cup of americano, please.”

“Americano,” Schofield’s deft fingers did the calculation on the cashier machine, “Take away?”

“Yes, please,” he answered with a slight nod while analyzing walls decorated by trinkets from the World War. His eyes were twinkling in excitement as he directed his gaze at Schofield, “…you’re a war geek.”

“My great-grandfather served in the First World War and those medals are the memento of his war-journey,” Schofield replied with honor as he mentioned his ancestor, “I thought it would be a waste if his patriotic stories lied down, so I had an idea to put them together in a proper place; _here_ ,” a gentle curve appeared on his delicate face, quite unmatched with his flat voice tone, “Because, you know, nobody really visits a museum.”

“So, you decided to show them off in this shop,” again, a friendly chuckle, “Brilliant.”

“It goes well with my concept,” Schofield gestured the tagline of his coffee shop, which sounded, _‘History created good coffee’_ – alongside a map of different types of coffee from around the world, “You enjoyed history as well, I assume?”

“Mm,” his eyes were still captivated by the badges, making Schofield forgot to brew a cup of espresso. The man's expression was too stunning to be ignored, “By the way, are those the Medal of Honor?” he pointed at some medallions, made of brass, which exclusively framed and placed on the top of the display.

Schofield was halfway grabbing a marker, “You recognize it.”

“My grandfather has that kind of thing, it belongs to his brother's grandfather,” he explained, “He only owns one, though. Your great-grandfather must be the war hero, for having such many,” he praised humbly.

“From what my father told me, he started to be acknowledged by the Generals for accomplishing such a deadly assignment,” his grip on the marker loosened a bit as Schofield felt a strange emotion suddenly attacked him, but he continued, nevertheless, “He was deployed to the frontline of enemy’s territory for sending a message to another battalion,” he bit his inner cheek as he spoke, “He made it, but his comrade didn’t.”

Listening to Schofield, the man who stood on the other side of the counter tilted his head.

“So, how about your great-great-grandfather – _am I right? –_ what kind of bold move he did back then?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Again, Schofield chuckled, “Try me.”

“For being killed while carrying a message through No Man’s Land.”

Schofield almost dropped the marker,

For a moment, time stopped ticking. The forgotten memories of explosions and fire; scream and shout, fear and death – slowly crawled beneath their deepest, hidden remembrance. Schofield almost suffocated for he felt the air around him was getting heavier. But at the same time, the way _this man_ tenderly looked at him, healed the wounds he never knew he had. A smile, and it saved him, as his guest shrugged, “It’s not a mere coincidence, is it?” Those eyes of his gleamed in a way Schofield found oddly mesmerizing.

“Would it be too much to be called destiny?” Schofield replied half-jokingly.

“For fuck’s sake.”

The barista laughed as well. He could feel the frantic pumps of his heard gradually subsided, and when he was calm enough to resume his job, his voice was firm and steady, “I’m going to need a name, anyway.”

“Oh, sure, it’s Blake.”

When the man blurted his name out, Schofield slightly gasped.

“Bravo, Lima, Alpha—”

“Is your first name Thomas?”

Schofield could obviously see the confusion on Blake’s face, “How could you know that?”

 _I found you_.

Without answering the question, Schofield wrote ‘Tom’ on the paper cup. He invited Blake to sit down while he was preparing the espresso, could he feel the heat from the way Blake assessing him which he found cute. The faint sound of boiling water poured into a glass container filled the room; Schofield gazed at the white petals of the cherry trees which was blown away by the breeze. _The spring was outside his window._

(—and he was _home_.)


	2. To Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... ended up updating this, but IDK whether I'll continue to write the third or fourth chapter; but what I can say now, is I'm going to the cinema watching this movie for the third time. I hope you can enjoy the feels I put in here. Cherio!

His nightmare was always about an old tunnel and a huge rat.

He stepped cautiously – _almost anxiously_ – analyzing how could another party build such massive barrack with proper bunk beds few stories under the ground level. His quivering hand gripped an electric torch, the dimmed light helped him scanning the interior of the underground vault.

He hated it when he wasn’t fully in control of the whole situation. All he and his comrade wanted was to quickly abandon this eerie place. _Wait._ There was another person – but he couldn’t remember his face. His name. _His?_ A man? He was trapped in a dark labyrinth with a _man_ he didn’t know. Then, a rat ran into the trap. _Tripwire._ Something exploded. The whole place was about to crumble. But instead of saving his own arse, he crawled and dug something out in panic.

No, it wasn’t something – it was _someone. The man._ He screamed in terror. His voice resounded but the cracking sound of stone and timber defeated his howl.

_‘You keep hold of me! We need to keep moving!’_

He recalled how stubborn he was for refusing the idea of leaving the taller _man_ in this collapsed building. He remembered there was light at the end of the tunnel and how they eventually made it. But every time he turned around to see the face of this ‘companion’, he only found a silhouette. The baritone hissed, annoyed, _‘Why in God’s name did you have to choose me?’_

_‘I don’t know.’_

_‘You can go all the bloody_ **_home_ ** _if you want.’_

No, he didn’t want _him_ to leave; he was relieved when he told him to fire the fucking flare.

(He saved _his_ life, and nothing else mattered.)

Thomas Blake woke up whimpering, both eyes were swollen.

The pillow under his face was damp from tears, and, _fuck_ , he cursed himself for crying in his sleep – _again_. He forced himself to sit, even though his body felt extremely heavy, then stared at his own hand. The dream last night was so _real_ ; crimson bathed his hand as he held _another_ hand, slimmer than his, but undoubtedly steadier. Blake recalled he leaned on someone’s chest. Blood spurted out of his lower abdomen, came from a deep, lethal stab wound. He wiped his watery eyes, fought the grogginess which suddenly affected him. _It was just a dream. A fucking bad one._ Blake patted his cheeks, cheering himself up. He half-jumped from his bed, rushing to the bathroom, he didn’t want to be late for this _appointment._

It wasn’t a formal one, but Blake thought he had got to look… _good._ After a nice, warm bath, he was busy choosing a proper set of clothing. He even took extra time to get rid of unwanted facial hair and spritzing perfume. Blake smiled widely at his reflection on the mirror. He was quite handsome, to begin with, but – _he didn’t know_ , he needed to recollect his confidence for this morning, he was about to see the barista.

Blake glanced at his working desk, where a business card innocently laid down.

> _No Man’s Land – History Created Good Coffee._

Blake found the coffee shop without even trying. He was randomly searching for a peaceful place to sit down for hours so he could continue his writings. It was the cheery trees that attracted him – seeing those white petals brought him somewhere he couldn’t comprehend. A little bit hesitant, he was. But still, his free hand landed on the doorknob, swung it open.

The only employee of the café, _Mr. Schofield, the name, he believed,_ turned out to the owner. He was six-feet tall with wide shoulders and a slightly muscular chest. Blake found this gentleman ridiculously attractive, thanks to his strong jawline and high cheekbones, yet a different kind of handsome if he had to compare the barista with himself. Schofield was more charming and mature; his expression was stern, and he rarely laughed. If he found things to be funny, the blue-eyed man just chuckled and shook his head lightly, then he would drown himself into his regular activities. Blake found it reassuring to see Schofield’s proficient hands mixing coffee grounds with another ingredient. Schofield wasn’t aware, nor he realized that Blake silently paid so much attention to his every movement.

This was their second meeting and Blake was somehow jittery,

“I shall suggest a cup of tea instead of coffee, Blake.”

He just placed his backpack on the empty seat when Schofield greeted him. Blake raised an eyebrow – for an acquaintance, the barista welcomed it in a too-friendly way. _He didn’t mind, though._ Blake nodded, he approached the counter to see the selections Schofield had to offer, “Sounds great, but I need to finish some drafts.”

Schofield squinted, “Drafts?”

“Yes, I’m a novelist, haven’t I told you that?”

“You did say you _wrote_ things, but you didn’t specifically say that you’re writing a novel,” he handed Blake the options, index finger pointed at an illustration of spicy chai latte, “You need a booster, this one will do.”

Reading the list of herbs, Blake was curious, “Cardamom, star anise. Seriously.”

“I swear it won’t be as bitter as you think. Herbs work better than caffeine, after all,” Schofield chuckled, “Or if you’re not that adventurous, I’ll just brew you either chamomile or lavender tea. Lower your stress level. But you might end up sleeping.”

“Is there any extra charge for sleeping here?”

“Do I look like an innkeeper?”

Blake laughed, “With a face like yours? You can tell me that you’re a bloody actor and I’ll believe in you.”

“If you’re trying to get a discount by saying such sweet things, trust me, there won’t be any.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Blake slightly pouted, “I’ll go with the chai latte, by the way.”

Schofield snorted, “As you wish.”

Blake shrugged before retreating to the occupied seat. He got his laptop, charged it, and turned it on – his eyes, however, glued at the direction of Schofield. There was _that_ expression again. Strict, serious, as if a tiny mistake he perhaps did could affect his whole career. Blake examined Schofield’s hand. His skilled fingers reminded him of _something_ he couldn’t recall. Schofield was busy with measuring mug, shot glass and stirring spoon, for now, but from the back of his mind, Blake could see the same fingers doing other things. Loading the rifle. Fixing the bayonet. _Pulling the trigger_ – Schofield put the cup on the table, concerned.

“You alright?”

The young writer clumsily nodded, “Insufficient sleep, but it doesn’t affect my health.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Schofield sharply interrupted. He sighed as Blake avoided eye contact. _This younger brat clearly was hiding something._ Deep down, he knew that it wasn’t his business and he might trespass someone else’s privacy, not to mention his customer, but – Schofield followed his hunch. He sat down next to him, eyed him gently, “Your work demands you to stay up late?”

“You’ll laugh at me.”

Schofield rolled his eyes. A silent voice that he wouldn’t.

“Right,” the chubby man scratched the back of his head, obviously had no idea where to start, “So, since I was a kid, I had this dream,” Blake’s brow furrowed, trying to reminisce, “Like, a series of it; for instance, one night, I was… _crouching_ on the muddy ground. I remember my hands and feet _sank_ into it, and the smell was horrid – is it possible to remember the _smell_ when you’re dreaming?” the way he talked was, _how could Schofield describe it_ , all out. His expression changed every second, he talked in gestures, his hands hovering enthusiastically, “Another day, an underground tunnel appeared. It was a _huge_ dugout, I think, dark and stinks and full of abandoned beds. Then, it suddenly crumbled, I tried to get out as quickly as I can, but,”

“…but?”

“I wasn’t alone,” his tone was gloomy when he said that, “I tried to rescue this… _friend_ of mine _,_ I guess.”

Suddenly, Schofield felt uncomfortable.

Blake, on the other hand, was busy with a storm of thoughts. He resumed, “I saw a dogfight, it was two on one. The loser lost its balance and fell to the ground – can you imagine being chased by a fiery plane?”

Schofield let out a small chuckle.

“But what I saw the most was…” his voice tone softened. Schofield paid attention to Blake’s grimace. The boy smiled; gentle curve on his lips but thick clouds in his eyes, “Trenches.”

“Trenches.”

“Mm,” a long sigh as Blake rested his stiffened back on the sofa, “Around three feet wide, six, seven feet tall. Those ditches dug into the ground – I served there, I _lived_ there, even though it was dirty and nasty and—”

“I know what trenches are, Blake, what I’m trying to say is,” Schofield raised a finger, a signal for Blake to wait for him while he was grabbing an album from the nearest book cabinet. Blake tilted his head as the photo album, hardcover made from old leather, was put open on the table. Curious, he craned his neck, examining the old pictures Schofield showed him; _he couldn’t help but gasp._ The barista looked at his friend's puzzled expression – Blake bit his knuckle as Schofield kept on shifting pages, “By trenches, do you mean—”

“I _remember_ this one,” his finger pointed one particular photograph. It looked like a regular trench, except it had two ladders leaned on the sloppy wall, not far from a periscope, “I… was _climbing_ these steps, I was watched by a group of soldiers, I almost went first, but this _friend_ stopped me and said,”

“Age before beauty.”

Blake was perplexed.

“That was the same sentence my grandfather told me every time I was about to do something stupid,” he explained, but it didn’t justify the reason why he professed it right _now_ , “His father, who served in _this_ war, told him that,” Schofield smiled bitterly when he flipped another sheet of paper, “This, was him.”

 _No bloody way_. Blake’s accusation was restrained on the tip of his tongue. Couldn’t he hide his confusion, but his chest was getting warmer in a bizarre way, to see that _man_ again. He wasn’t able to reminisce the face of the _man_ in his dream – but it was crystal clear that it was… _him_. He _missed_ this man a lot as if he was losing a best friend, a brother. (Or, something even greater than that.) Blake put his palm on his trembling lips, swallowed the tears he didn’t know what for, as he read words afterwords below the photograph.

> _Lance Corporal William Schofield, 1894 – 1939._

“He had two daughters, left his family for serving in the First World War,” as Schofield continued telling his stories, his voice was slightly cracked, “He made it home in 1918 and their marriage was blessed by a son – my grandfather,” he exhaled, “He raised the three of them in a stable financial condition, they were living a happy and peaceful life, or at least my grandfather told me, until…” his voice turned wistful, “…summer, 1939.”

“The Second World War,” Blake whispered.

Schofield slowly nodded, “My grandfather told me that he wasn't allowed to serve and on behalf of him, _his_ father deployed himself,” there was a long pause before he resumed, “He told me how his father was... _Obsessed_ , with this war, you can guess the rest of the story.”

“Oh.” _He never came back_.

A long sigh and Schofield got another binding, a clear holder this time. Aged parchments inside were letters, the papers were turning yellow, which Schofield filed neatly inside a plastic folder. He carefully took out one of them and handed it to Blake, “I found it inside a chest which lately I knew was belonged to him, alongside those medals and photographs, but most of them were too fragile. Especially the letters,” he looked down when Blake almost couldn’t hold his tears as he read the sentences, written in decrepit handwriting, “It was written by a woman named Mrs. Blake—”

“Two sons, both of them were deployed, but only one survived,” Blake wiped the corner of his eyes, he forced himself to smile, “My turn, Schofield,” he swiped the touchpad of his laptop, “I’ll show you something.”

Schofield didn’t interrupt when Blake opened some digital folders with quick clicks of his thumb. But he hissed _‘Jesus Christ’_ when the image viewer revealed a scanned old picture. The resolution itself wasn’t good, a normal person would need some time to acknowledge those figures – but Schofield immediately _knew_.

“Mrs. Blake.”

“This one is my great-great-grandfather, Joseph Blake, and this is his brother. He was nineteen; too young when he was killed on the battlefield, he never married, moreover having a child. His name was—”

“Thomas Blake.”

_You._

Blake reluctantly nodded, “I was named after him.”

For a moment, the time froze. Schofield still stared at the picture, so did Blake. Lost in an imaginary vortex inside his head. Suddenly the space wasn’t coherent, their senses were numb, everything didn’t make any sense. But at the same time, they stopped questioning and found what they were searching for in each other’s eyes. Blake wondered how Schofield still managed to look impassive at the time like this; he even couldn’t name the feeling inside his stomach right now and he knew he made weird expressions. Half relieved, half fearful. Finding his dream incarnated into a solid, living human was no joke. Blake didn’t know what to believe anymore. Yet, Schofield seemed to comprehend.

“Enjoy your drink while it’s hot,” he tidied up the albums and brought it to the original place.

“Sco.”

The barista reflexively turned around.

Blake – _this_ Blake, who sat down with such an innocent face, looked so young and beautiful without dirt and blood and fear. Schofield knew he wanted to discuss the story from the past, but he shook his head, patting the top of the younger’s had, “Finish your work, then we can talk,” he stroked those brown hair mischievously, “It’s not like we don’t have time.” They had plenty of it – even a _lot_ if they wanted more.

They once had a race against time.

(—but now, they had _forever_ to explore.)


	3. To Understand You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, I guess I have to add the legendary `s l o w b u r n` tag. God have mercy.

There was this dream again.

But this time, at least, he didn’t see any trace of blood, nor the thundering sound of the artillery. The horrible smell of rotten flesh and gunpowder were absent. Funny how he saw himself sleeping. In a _dream_. Eyes closed, fingers intertwined, rested on his relaxed stomach. He laid down on the bed of grass. Morning dew seeped into his military uniform; quite cold, but it didn’t bother him. Not far from him, another figure leaned against an oak tree. _His_ fingers ran across his reddish-brown hair, lulling him in soft hum, such a warm gesture he was blessed in the iciness of the most deadly war in history.

If he could go all romantic, he would consider _this man_ as his sanctuary, a place called _home_ – but they were _soldiers_ ; they should’ve _not_ let such sentimentality affect their alertness. They had spent weeks, even months, without needing to reach the frontline, true, but still. Comfort was a dangerous thing.

 _This man_ was a dangerous thing.

But he trusted _him_ entirely, with his heart and soul.

“Blake, you’ve got mail,” the tender voice whispered, “Blake, wake up.”

Including _this_ , obviously, “Take it for me, Sco…”

Schofield. _Sco,_ he passionately named him, a spell and a curse, raw friendliness amidst the brutality. Blake sluggishly grabbed his tin helmet, hid his face beneath it, didn’t bother to reconfirm. He knew that Schofield would accept his letter. _He_ would take good care of it and handed it to him later.

Wasn’t it too much to enjoy a slow day?

When he opened his eyes, Blake _knew_ he was crying in his sleep.

At this point, it didn’t surprise him anymore. But what made him jolt was the unfamiliar view of brick walls and wood-parquet flooring – this was _clearly_ not his room. He examined the surface he slept on; it wasn’t a mattress but instead, a couch. The fabric which blanketed his lower body was a piece of an unknown, oversized jacket. And when he finally realized that it wasn’t a pillow his head was on,

“…you’re awake?”

_Holy fucking shit._

“Uh,” Blake swore to God if He could just make him vanished from this world and all. He was too afraid and nervous and – _Jesus,_ did he just sleep on Schofield’s lap? For how long? He awkwardly twitched his wrist to get a better view of his watch and groaned in annoyance, “…why didn’t you wake me up?”

Schofield took a second to clear his throat, “Do you need to send your draft or something?”

“That’s your concern?”

“Someone named ‘Leslie’ called you a couple of times—”

Blake let out an inaudible ‘fuck’ before getting up hastily and it made his head swayed a little. Schofield said nothing but he extended an arm, ready to catch Blake if his sudden dizziness affected him that much, but the younger one waved a hand indicating that he was fine. He grabbed his cell phone and hurriedly called back a number, and grinned at Schofield while waiting for the other party to pick up.

Schofield didn’t interrupt and silently inspected at how Blake facing such a messy situation – seriously, he couldn’t help but dragging a palm across his face. He apologized several times, making various facial expressions Schofield found them comical, noiselessly cussing while taking mental notes; it was visible on the wrinkles of his forehead. The discussion lasted for around five minutes or so before Blake said one last ‘sorry’ and hung up for good. He sighed loudly, grumbled how stupid he was for sleeping at a crucial time like this, his agile thumbs typing fast. Blake set his gadget aside, tapping his own head,

“So…” cautiously, Schofield spoke, “Things are fine?”

Blake blinked, his delayed reaction resulted in a blank face, “What – _oh_ , the writings… Yes. _No_. But well, I’ll manage, somehow,” the speed of his nodding head, though, might’ve broken his neck bones.

“Who’s Leslie?”

“My editor,” a pause, “To say that he’s a scary guy would be an understatement. I’m lucky he’s on a date so he didn’t scold me for an hour,” Blake fidgeted, giggling like an idiot – an absolutely cute one, but still an idiot, “He’s kind enough to set me a new deadline, though, saying that he’d better wait for a proper writing instead of my – why are you laughing?” he slightly pouted when Schofield snorted.

Unable to cover his guffaw, Schofield hummed a ‘sorry’ before actually stating his reason.

“I’m just thinking… You _don’t_ change at all.”

His heart skipped a beat—

‘Change’, he said, as if he had witnessed _him_ for a very long time.

“Pardon?”

Schofield sat silent, eyes were still on Blake, studying every single inch of his tired face. Slowly, Blake figured out what happened a couple of hours ago – Schofield was busy with other customers and left after assigning him to another seat in the very corner of the café. The sofa was hidden by indoor vine walls and potted plants, a desolate, perfect spot for Blake finishing his delayed writing. But alas, his mind was somewhere but blinking cursor and empty word sheet. He perhaps overslept with head leaned uncomfortably against the inside arm of the sofa. Understandable; but to rest on his lap was—

Blake wished the apocalypse could come anytime soon.

“Never mind, I…” refusing to make eye contact, Blake was pretending to be busy with his scribbles and laptop, “It’s been passed your business hours, right? Sorry for bothering you, I’ll just get a cab home.”

“Blake,”

“Shut it, how stupid of me; how much should I pay?”

“Blake,” Schofield’s tone was somewhere between delicate but demanding, “Please, stay.”

The request sent a shiver down his spine. _Oh_ , how he _wanted_ to. It was Schofield who asked him and he was more than just aware that – _that,_ Blake shook his head. From the back of his mind, far away, if this was his century-beforehand-self, he must’ve tilted his head, being all oblivious and unconcerned to all Schofield might say. Things were quite different now. He wasn’t a clueless nineteen-year-old boy who randomly signed the army force just because he avoided the pastorate. He was a decent adult with both steady and side jobs, old enough to make a decision, to be responsible for his own choice.

He _knew_ what lingered in Schofield’s eyes; especially after having their… _stories,_ shared.

This is too early. _Not now_.

But – how many misunderstandings they had been through. How many years, decades, since the first time they comprehended how the world worked, the pain dawdled inside their chest, waited to be resolved. Schofield didn’t seem to give him a chance and Blake froze when a strong hand reached his.

_Wrong move._

* * *

_‘Where did you find that?’ ‘I have my uses.’_

_‘We just need to think about it.’ ‘There’s nothing to think about.’_

_‘I wish you’d picked some other bloody idiot.’_

_‘Why do you care?’ ‘Why do you not?’_

_‘No, get him some water. He needs water.’_

_‘Let’s just sit… Let me sit.’_

_‘Talk to me,’_

_‘—tell me you know the way.’_

* * *

Blake almost fell to his knees.

But Schofield was faster. He stood up and helped unsteady Blake back into his seat. The younger one didn’t have a choice but holding onto Schofield’s sleeves. His face was entirely shocked; as he was _forced_ to consume all of the forgotten information at once. Blake hardly swallowed, terror and misery painted on his bewildered face. Schofield’s free hand cupped his companion’s jaw, softly adding slight pressure to make Blake sure that it was fine, that he was in the rightest hand, on the rightest time.

“What was that?” Blake asked, voice quiet. Fearful.

“What do you think it was?”

“They’re not simply nightmares, are they?” tone was shaking, Blake stared at Schofield in disbelief, “What I saw, every night, those are _memories_? Those horrible things actually happened?”

Schofield didn’t say anything. He either nodded, or shook his head, but didn’t speak.

A painful silence.

Carefully, Schofield reached Blake’s hand once again. It was well-calculated this time. As he found out that the younger man didn’t flinch – _he didn’t show any response, in fact_ – Schofield entwined their fingers, filled every gap of Blake’s hand, held him tight. Only if he could be closer than this, he would.

“How much?” he asked, “How far?”

“Everything… I guess?” the way Blake spoke, as if he traveled through time, nowhere near this modern housing, “I chose military instead of priesthood, assuming they might feed me better, thinking my life wouldn’t be that bland,” he looked down, a bitter curve on his lips, “My first day was terrible, right? I got lost a _lot_ , I couldn’t memorize which trench was which, I even couldn’t read maps properly—”

“Had no idea how to reload your rifle, almost cut open your palm for falsely positioning the bayonet,” Schofield finished Blake’s sentences and they laughed together, “You never knew where to go.”

Blake clumsily shrugged, “And I easily found you since you always slept under the same tree.”

“You just refused to learn how to respect someone else’s privacy, you recall?”

“I did.”

Schofield squeezed the hand in his possession. The last time he did it, Blake was dying in his arms. He shivered at his own thought, struggled not to think about their bloody past – focused on how _blessed_ he was for having Blake beside him; solid, living, _breathing_. Schofield murmured, “You’re a good man.”

“Put you in a lot of trouble for being one at the wrong place and time.”

“We’re not going that way.”

Blake mumbled another apology.

“What else?”

When Schofield asked, his hand was already on Blake’s face.

Blake was mute, but they both _knew_. Schofield was a lone wolf and Blake was a total opposite of him. They took _months_ from merely fellow soldiers into became actual friends and what they had gradually turned into something else. Something deep and strong. It wasn’t more or any less, just… _different._

Schofield never hid his marriage status; that he already had a wife in London, taking care of their two daughters. Even though he never wore his wedding ring for safety purposes, the whole platoon knew. Blake understood that he once trespass the border but there was no turning back. He knew he kissed a husband, a father, a man he should never give his heart to. Schofield fell and he fell _hard_. They both did. But Blake, despite his young age and carefreeness, had accepted the fact that their togetherness was temporary, there were no ‘forever’ for him, once the war ended, Schofield belonged to his family.

He knew. He _got_ it.

Blake was too naïve, too kind, too _pure_ for this world – he was never designed to _steal_ , to _claim_ , to _take away_ something which wasn’t his. Thus, _someone_ would be out of the question. The thought lingered until now, transcended century; he couldn’t let Schofield repeat the same mistake. Not in this _timeline_.

“—it wasn’t _love_ , Sco.”

“Blake,”

“Stop.”

_Don’t say such things._

Schofield swallowed his confession. His _delayed_ confession.

That he _loved_ Blake. He _loved_ him then, he’d been _loving_ him until this very moment. If it wasn’t _love_ , Schofield would’ve given up the mission once he suffered from massive head trauma. It was _love_ that kept him going. It was _Blake_. Schofield pressed his palm on Blake’s cheek. So very close to crying.

“You were just lonely,” Blake’s lips were trembling, “And I was curious – you know, we were stranded, in war, we had no choice but...” he intentionally avoided other man’s eyes, unable to control both his feelings and emotions. Schofield was too much and overwhelming, and _he didn’t know anymore_ , “Whatever happened between us was a mistake, Sco, and you didn’t love me – you _shouldn’t_.”

“You’re done?”

The tenderness in the way Schofield spoke cut him off.

“Now, look at me.”

Wound. Tears. _Longing._

“You’ll never know, Blake, you weren’t there anymore. But I – I mean, _William_ – he was devastated after your death, and,” Schofield stuttered, “No, to say that way would be an understatement; for twenty-two years after the incident, he was _barely_ living, and to experience every second of it was—

—it was—”

Schofield couldn’t bring himself to continue.

The pain was too immense.

“It _this_ isn’t _love_ , Blake, then I…” he desperately whispered, “…I don’t know what it is.”

Blake found himself reflected on Schofield’s eyes, smiling, “Who was speaking just now?” at this point, he couldn’t help but let out his repressed despair, “Lance Corporal William Schofield, or _you_?”

The question was unexpected,

No, it wasn’t like he didn’t expect it. Schofield just didn’t know how to deal with it.

“Sco, just because we _inherited_ these memories, or – I don’t know, okay? This is all too sudden, _God_ , I really had no idea what to believe anymore,” Blake slightly pulled away. How could he put it clearly; that he _wasn’t_ a substitute for their past, he _wasn’t_ Lance Corporal Blake who loved his friend in the army, he _wasn’t_ whatever Schofield thought about right now. He was Thomas Blake, that’s that. Even if they were bounded by destiny and for _fuck’s_ sake they met again in another life, in completely different circumstances, it didn’t mean they _had_ to fall in love with each other – falling in the same place?

(—or, did they?)

Blake averted his eyes.

“He _loved_ you,” he eventually admitted, “So much it hurts _me_.”

Schofield _wanted_ to hug him. To bring Blake closer until they were out of breath, blanketed him in a bone-crushing embrace – but he couldn’t. Blake was right. They were so wrecked and disoriented they almost forgot that they _had_ another life, their current souls, their own plotline. But Schofield didn’t let Blake flee. He would never, not after waiting for fucking, agonizing decades. Slowly, their heartbeat returned to normal, as were their breathing, and Schofield took his chance to gently ask Blake,

“Shall we start over, then?”

Blake wasn’t sure. He squinted uncomfortably as the response.

Schofield huffed, “Blake, would you give me a chance to get to know you better?”

“We are broken, Sco,” he replied in utter sorrow, “I don’t think even time could fix us.”

“I will.”

His tone indicated seriousness and it left Blake breathless. Schofield and his bad habit to treasure him more than he treasured himself. Blake gave up; he brought the hand in his grasp to his temple and quietly rested there. Yes, he was terrified of what tomorrow might bring, but _something_ about them felt so right and made him feel safe. Schofield internally, _solemnly,_ swore he wouldn’t let the same tragedy happened again. He would protect him at all costs; no one would be killed this time. _No one._

The time ticked slowly and they wished they could make it stop.


	4. To Miss You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house, we stan supportive friends. Say hello to our grumpy lieutenant.

Blake – his name was Blake. Thomas Blake. _Yes._

Schofield finally grasped _his_ identity wholly; a comrade, a friend, a person he would sacrifice his life for. And he meant it. He would be the one who pulled Blake’s collar when _he_ almost slipped into the river, shared leftover food he got from only-God-knew-where-and-how, stroke _his_ head, lulling _him_ to sleep after a long, exhausting battle. Being in an active warzone side by side taught Schofield that his biggest fear was watching Blake being hurt – and he always did the best he could to protect _him_. Because unlike him, the younger boy was, _sometimes_ , too gentle to aim his rifle, to pull the trigger.

Every time Blake _had to_ kill – _which mostly a product of him defending his arse_ – Schofield would spend a night comforting _him_. Like this. He was embracing _his_ curling figure, _his_ back was quivering; _he_ missed Joe and Myrtle, _he_ missed _his_ mother and their orchard, miles away from this stranded land.

All Blake wanted was anything but this war,

And he _believed_ that someday, this bloodbath and massacre would come to an absolute end, people would gather in peace, he and Joe must’ve come home alive, made a little surprise for their mother.

But Schofield and his logical reasoning _knew_ it was a tiny margin of luck that they survived until today. The fact was – he, perhaps, _enjoyed_ this war more than anybody else. He couldn’t remember how to _normally_ live, not being dirty with mud and sweat, to sleep without wearing his webbing. Thus, _home_ ; he gradually _hated_ being home, for every time he hugged Blake, he always felt he was already _home_.

This was enough. _Blake was enough_.

Schofield brewed two shots of espresso and swallowed it in a big gulp.

He internally screamed for the hot temperature burnt his throat. _Stupid_. He was being one, lately, but at least, he didn’t make his customers flee. One wouldn’t recognize that the barista was acting strangely for he always managed his professional exterior well-maintained. A few of his loyal buyers did notice, though, but Schofield just shrugged and told them that he was lacking sleep. Well, that wasn’t a lie; since the day Thomas Blake told him that he ‘needed some space’, the novelist never stopped by this café anymore, and Schofield waited, he extended his business hours, staying up until midnight.

Silly. He knew. He was – _borderline knew, yet he didn’t_ – he wasn’t a goddamn teenager who had a crush on a girl next door, but he behaved as if he was. He seriously hated himself for _not_ being himself.

It was his second week without Blake and it almost drove him crazy. Schofield (ridiculously) didn’t ask for his phone number, or social media, or, _hell_ , he could easily search for him using the internet, yes. But he regretted it now for not asking him _personally_ when he had a chance. So dumb of him for fully relying on their ‘fate’ – he should’ve struggled harder than depending on sheer luck. Schofield inhaled deeply, convincing himself that there was nothing wrong with adding Blake’s social media account, casually asked his condition, that was a normal friend would do. Except, they were _not_ simply friends.

Oh, how he wanted to be selfish once in a while.

Schofield decided to be one, today. He rushed to the front door and an inch away from flipping the signage from ‘open’ to ‘close’, but the appearance of a familiar guy prevented him to do so. The man who just entered his shop was – “You’re open, mate?” _that_ accent, _that_ sharp gaze, _that_ poor sense of fashion, Schofield quickly recognized him as _one_ from his past. Just like he coincidentally _found_ Blake.

“Yes,” his hovering hand quickly withdrew from the sign, “How may I help you?”

“Not selling any booze, nay?” the man with beanie rhetorically asked while stepping inside the café, followed by the owner. Schofield snorted, _how some people just never change_ , he thought.

“I’m brewing coffee with rum if it’d please you,” said the barista while walking into the back of the counter. He held back any question he might blurt out – there were _things_ he needed to make sure about this whole cycle of life he didn’t yet to understand, “Best served hot if I shall suggest.”

“Try me,” he shrugged, “Leslie, by the way.”

 _I know_. Schofield didn’t let it slip, surely, but as he did the calculation and preparing a mug, his eyes didn’t escape Leslie at all. He was still – _shabby_ , even in this modern era, Schofield betted he didn’t like water that much. His smell reeked of nicotine and beer, the sunken face, he didn’t even bother to shave properly. But _something_ about Leslie soothed Schofield. His heart didn’t flutter as much as when he met Blake for the first time; it was more… _subtle_? All he knew was he low-key missed his sarcasm. Leslie, on the other hand, didn’t seem to _know_ him at all.

“What day is it?”

_Seriously?_

Schofield almost chuckled, “Sunday, Sir.”

“Drop the formality, it hurts me,” Leslie scoffed, made Schofield slap himself mentally, “Put extra rum on it, will you? Charge me all the way you want,” he added while grabbing a lighter from his pocket.

“Sorry, Si – _Leslie_ ,” _Sir,_ he almost said, “That won’t be allowed.”

“Oh, such a shame,” he grunted, but lowered his cigarette, still, “You provide an outdoor seat, aye?”

Schofield nodded, “If you please,” he gestured at the backyard, parted by a borderless glass window, “You can sit first, pay later, and I’ll take your order to your seat,” _Sir_ – how hard it was to stay focused.

“Nice, because I’ll be around for hours,” Leslie lifted a pile of documents he stored in a clear file, they looked freshly printed, quite heavy, which Schofield assumed they were thesis or journals, or – _wait_ , who was the name of Blake’s editor, again? The way he frowned captured Leslie’s attention, “Mate?”

“Uh – are you, perhaps... working for a publishing house?”

“Huh, quite an observer, aren’t you,” he lightly mocked, but his eyes smiled, “People said that this place is a haven for creative people and many of those recommend me this place. I’m here to prove their judgment,” Leslie made an ‘if they’re wrong, I’ll destroy your online rating with a simple click’ expression, which Schofield found serious, “One of my baby-client praised this place a lot and he almost drove me insane for talking about your café like, I don’t know, probably 24/7,” he half-jokingly added.

 _Oh_.

Those foolish thumps of his heart, again.

“I think I know who are you talking about,” he didn’t mean to smile _that_ wide, yet he did.

“Aye, aye, if it wasn’t Blake,” Schofield never know he could be _this_ excited to hear about Blake from other people’s perspectives. He never talked about _him_ with practically anybody else. Not after his… _death_ , not after he handed his belongings to his brother, not to his wife and children, and obviously not in this _timeline_. Having Leslie spoke about him was reassuring and warm; Schofield couldn’t help but grin when Leslie continued, “He spent most of his time writing here, aye? That spoiled brat.”

Schofield _agreed_ , actually, “There was one day he apologized to _you_ for being late to submit his work.”

“Huh, so he was here that night,” Leslie grunted, but his expression was relieved.

“Did that happen a lot?” he was brewing a cup of espresso when asking, “I mean – lately he looked tired and sleep-deprived,” Schofield paused. He couldn’t tell that he hadn’t seen Blake for two weeks.

Leslie sighed, “Usually, he’s focused on his work – we paid him well for his fresh gags, he has this rare ability in retelling stories in a funny way, effortlessly do stand-up comedy but in terms of writing,” he giggled, hands crossed on his chest, “He’s clumsy and careless, but we see he tried his best, barely an adult, we get that,” they laughed in unison, both nodded, “He sent me his submission this morning by e-mail, which I found odd, so I think to ask him directly, just to find out he’s not currently in London.”

Schofield’s heart sank a bit,

“He’s – _what_?”

“I assume you might know some, you’re friends after all?” Leslie pointed his unlit cigarette at him, “I believed his receptionist was lying about it so I inspect this place – thought will find him hiding here.”

The barista shook his head, “I honestly haven’t seen him since.”

Leslie made another ‘huh’ face.

“Is there something wrong?” Schofield anxiously asked, “I mean, he won’t lose his job or something?”

“Nay, he’s fine, he fulfilled his responsibility quite well, just wondering why he suddenly changed his style, that’ll be all,” explained Leslie while toying with the folder on his hand, “Well, since I can’t find him here, I’ll just get drunk and check his goddamn work,” he excused himself to the outdoor seating.

“Sir,”

Leslie turned around and glared at him for addressing him in such a way,

Schofield murmured an inaudible ‘sorry’ before stating, “When you said… Changed his style—”

“Ah,” he huffed, “Writing style, clearly.”

“Indeed, I mean, _how_?”

“Have you ever read his writings?”

“As a casual reader, I found them to be fun. Sometimes humorous, could be a bit dark with the comedy but overall enjoyable – I’m not a fan of fiction, but his works are entertaining,” he commented.

Leslie looked like he was considering something, yet he breathed out before handing Schofield some pages with ‘Blake’ name on it, “First draft of his newest novel. Haven’t read it entirely but this one just _isn’t_ him,” Schofield received it while thinking, _‘is this even allowed_ ’ – there should be a border how a person could be this reckless. Leslie found Schofield’s confusion and added, “Just don’t post it on your social media,” he warned before excusing himself outside, lighting his first dose of nicotine.

Schofield read them, word after word,

It left him speechless.

The story was – intimate, _personal_ , a journey of reflection and blunt honesty of being in _love_. Blake expressed longing, frustration, and happiness as if he was telling a story about himself. About _them_.

Blake never really used poetic language, never bothered himself with gentleness, didn’t care about rhyme and scheme, but he _did_ , now. To say that his newest creation was merely beautiful would be a shallow understatement. Schofield lowered the paper, a palm covering his mouth, his face warm. He could almost perfectly portray himself as the male lead character; no matter how cliché and cheesy as it might seem. Blake was avoiding him, yet at the same time, he still _thought_ about him, so deeply he manifested his feelings and artistry into a tender composition. _Boy,_ he was excruciatingly in _love_.

But then again, the question remained the same.

 _Which_ Blake? To _which_ Schofield?

“I have to make sure, don’t I?” Schofield whispered, not to particularly anyone, but himself. How could he convince Blake if he couldn’t gain his own confidence? He was a bloody moron for not knowing anything and didn’t attempt to look for any further information. He gripped the script harder as if he wanted to show off his determination – before neatly placing it on the top shelf alongside with sacks of coffee bean. Schofield hurriedly finished his customer’s order, still paid attention to details and some garnishing, then walking outside the backyard to serve it, “Sorry for keeping you wait,” _Sir_ , “Leslie.”

The beanie-guy nonchalantly nodded, “So, how’s the draft?”

“It was—” Schofield found himself smiled, “—heart-warming.”

“Ten grand, he’s having an affair,” Leslie’s banter made the other chuckled, “That idiot better not out of love before finishing this one, make me do more work, suddenly changing his genre,” he grumbled.

Schofield raised an eyebrow, “You’d still publish this one?”

“Trust me, there’s always a market for love story, no matter how shitty the books are,” said the editor, and Schofield was more and more sure that Leslie was sent here right now to brighten his path, “But Blake’s writing?” he shook his head, then smirked, “I’ll risk my career to make this one a best-seller.”

To hear such compliments about _him_ , “I’ll be the first to buy,” Schofield halted, considered a private question, but followed his intuition to ask away, “Do you, perhaps, know where he is?”

“Not sure either, but he mentioned that he had family in Essex, that would be my wild-yet-best-guess,” he replied, “What, you’re visiting him, aye?” Leslie’s eyes were twinkling in a way Schofield found disturbing – as if he _knew_ something he shouldn’t. How much Blake told him about this café, he wondered. The older man waved a hand, “If you made it to him, quickly drag his arse back to London.”

“That’s not possible, I don’t even know his phone number,” Schofield admitted.

Leslie rolled his eyes. He reached into his pocket and handed the other a card, “Should do.”

Schofield blankly stared at the innocent piece of paper; why he didn’t think to ask Blake _this_ subtly. He read the information provided and nodded in gratefulness at Leslie – this way, he wouldn’t trespass any border and stayed professional. _Oh_ , the truest fact that he wanted to see him was more than _that_.

“Go fetch him, Soldier,” Leslie humorously ordered him.

He didn’t verbally reply, but Schofield was eager to do so. He could reach Essex by train and all he needed was a 53-minutes trip to see Blake. Didn’t have to crouch along the muddy ground or running for hours.

Once he had all the time in the world, things were easier.


	5. To Have You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter ahead. Happy weekend, everyone!

William Schofield had a wife and two daughters.

He kept their pictures, safely stored them in a tin container, put it inside his breast pocket. _Close to his heart,_ wishing that he would stay that way – he _promised_ them that nothing could change their man.

But the war changed everything. Country border. Technology. People. _People._ He was too optimistic, too proud of himself, yet he gradually _reformed_. Days passed, weeks turned into months, suddenly he’d been fighting for almost three years. Schofield evolved from a _father_ into a _killing machine_. He tried his best to avoid staining his hands with other’s blood, but he was, indeed, one of the most proficient – _if not merciless_ – fighter the 8th ever had. He mastered long-ranged shooting, he was skilled in hand-on-hand combat, he possessed stronger endurance and stamina rather than any other infantrymen.

And most of the time, Thomas Blake forgot that those hands of his comrade had taken many _lives_ away, for he never felt this _alive_ when the same hands were everywhere on his skin. He _made_ Schofield forget that he belonged to a _family_ , that he had to _come back_ to them – later when the war ended.

_Kiss me,_

They should never. They _must’ve_ not.

For a moment, Schofield abandoned what he had. Not as a Lance Corporal, a father, a husband, but – _kiss me, Will_ – he was… William. Just William. A man without a surname, who was madly intoxicated by another _man_ named Thomas. The sound of war vanished behind their naked back, melted by kisses and touches, evaporated with hisses of warm breath. Time was irrelevant, space was insignificant.

There were things which lasted for a moment, but worth _forever_.

_…the fuck just happened._

Thomas Blake slapped his cheek. Both of them. _Hurts_. He wasn’t dreaming anymore. Still, the fact that he was awakened by a graphic view of Schofield’s chest against his sweaty back – “Okay, that’s it.”

He almost _fell_ from his bed; forgot that this bedroom wasn’t his flat in London, but a smaller space with a bunk-bed he shared with his elder brother. Blake grunted as he carefully descended the ladders. Another grumble escaped his full lips once he realized the bulge inside his stained pants; he seriously could never see Schofield in his eyes again, not after his blighted dream. There were days where Blake felt so grateful for finally those gory scenes never appeared in his nightmare anymore. Blood and mud and putrid smell were replaced by _him_ , how he tenderly treated him, how he softly called his name,

(—how his mouth _devoured_ him,)

“Not that part.”

“What part?”

Blake was startled by a voice. His _brother’s_ voice, who he found sluggishly leaning against the doorway, “Uh,” _Joe,_ he almost addressed him, “Nothing, Josh.” he stuttered while fidgeting his shoulders.

Joseph Blake raised an eyebrow, “You alright?”

“Yes, why?”

Joe – Josh, Joseph Blake, three years older than him, smirked while eyeing his little brother’s pajamas, “You’re almost twenty-four, Tommy, it’s perfectly fine to have someone to fuck,” he gestured Tom’s crotch using his chin and laughed as the shorter man glared, “Oh, baby, stop being a virgin already.”

“Shut up,” Thomas snapped while walking fast, past Joseph, his face red and lips pouting.

“Hey, where are you going? Ma said the breakfast is ready!”

“I’ll catch up!”

Joseph grinned and shook his head, but didn’t reply nevertheless. He left their bedroom and stepped into the kitchen to help their mother with her cherry pies, decided to let Thomas alone for a while.

Thomas was blessed by a warm family, even though he almost had no memory of his dead father, but he treasured his mother and big brother as much as his own life. The house they lived in wasn’t the luxurious one, but it was warm and filled with childhood memories. It was a decent two-story building located in Essex countryside, with red brick classic style, steep roof, and large windows. Bed of flowers decorated the front yard, four cherry trees on the backyard, a pair of wooden rocking chairs on the porch – but Thomas’ favorite spot was the attic, where they stored forgotten goods.

Including the old legacy which contains war memoirs of their forefather.

He’d tried to open the locked suitcase, but every time his fingers landed on its leather surface, he just; retreated. _Something_ inside the luggage hesitated him, even though this wasn’t his first time seeing what’s inside. Joseph and he always played with the tin medals when they were kids, pretending they were soldiers, without knowing that they died once for their country. Talking about an irony.

“No one seems to remember,” he whispered.

Not his mother, not even Joseph.

He tried to bring up the past, casually asked about things which might trigger their emotion or their hidden memories, but ended up nothing. (“Ma, I think I found your love letters for Pa upstairs.” “That would be nonsense, Tommy, writing is not my thing. They belong to your grandma, I suppose.”) (“Hey, what do you think if I call you ‘Joe’?” “Sounds weird.” “Really?” “No one ever called me that way.”)

“Why me,” Thomas hissed, “Why _only_ me?”

He tugged his hair, slightly frustrated. This house, his family, his ancestor’s belongings, never _hurt_ him this way, before. Thomas gave up to his sentimentality and finally unlocked the baggage, readied himself if the sting on his chest tortured him once more. He gasped at the burning sensation inside his abdominal as he touched the mementos. The photographs. The badge of honor. The identification tag with his name engraved on it. The ring. _The ring_. Thomas painfully inhaled as much as he can, it was hard to control his breath – _the ring_. Supposed to be two he always wore, yet he only found one.

Thomas couldn’t help but remembering Schofield. _Or, Lance Corporal William Schofield_ – the fine man who haunted his dreams for _years_ , who protected him at all cost, who accompanied him until the end of his life. He recalled his warmth and gentleness. How his low-toned hum appreciated his stories, how he comforted him after a series of a massacre. He let out an inaudible cried of embarrassment once the erotic scene came play inside his head – how he wanted to blame Schofield for calling him last night, right before he passed out. Thomas grabbed his mobile phone, re-checking their conversation.

“God, kill me instead,” there were a call history and some messages. Joseph let him drink too much and the result was a catastrophe: he shared his location to Schofield. That _wasn’t_ a part of the dream.

(Joseph didn’t say anything, though—)

 _Rrrrr_.

“Blimey,” he jolted when the phone in his grip vibrated.

Thomas cursed himself for being this stupid and quickly read the chat. He made an _‘oh no’_ voice before hastily cleaned up the mess – Schofield was here. He was outside the front door and Thomas heard the bell rang and suddenly lost his blabbering capability. (He also hadn’t had a proper shower. Perfect.)

“Tommy.”

“Holy shit!”

Joseph raised an eyebrow at how surprised his little brother was, “You’re not wanking, are you?”

“I dare you to joke about it,” Thomas snorted, he dragged the heavy suitcase back to its original spot, hurriedly wiped his eyes and face before facing the older guy, “Told you I’ll catch up, why are you—”

“Someone is looking for you.”

That silly thump again.

Thomas stuttered for a moment, “Yeah?” he avoided eye contact with Joseph, “My editor, I guess? He just doesn’t know when to give up, I’ve submitted my work a couple of days ago, there’s no way he finished all those drafts in such time,” he tried to conceal his nervousness with a joke, but Joseph _knew_.

“He specifically said he’s a ‘friend’.”

Thomas sighed.

He made a mistake and he was about to fix it – _them_. He was wrong when he rejected, avoided and left Schofield without words. There were things they had to discuss, to make clear, to solve. Thomas nodded, his face stiffened, and Joseph swore he never saw him looked this humorless. He recalled how the ‘friend’ downstairs introduced himself to him and their mother; he understood it entirely.

“I’ll go see him,” a small smile appeared on Thomas’ chubby face, “Thanks, Josh.”

“Tommy.”

Thomas halted, eyes battling with Joseph’s, who stared at him worriedly, “…yeah?”

“Listen, I…” Joseph scratched his temple, bothered and uneasy, “Don’t get me wrong, you’re my brother, I’ll love you for whatever your choice and preference, but, can you, at least,” he stood straight, hands akimbo, his voice turned soft and concerned, “—don’t date a married man, will you?”

“What?” _who’s dating? Who’s married? Are they even talking about the same thing?_

“This man, who’s looking for you, _oh, Jesus_ , even Ma could see his intention clearly – I don’t know if she’s okay with it, but…” he groaned. When did the last time he talked _this_ serious with Thomas? They were close. So very close. Never did they hide anything from each other. Yet, they’re boys. Men, now. And things involving _feelings_ and relationships were just too much, if not shameful. Even though he and their mother always knew that the youngest was something else, they never really spoke about it – hence, the time came unexpectedly, “At least try finding a guy with no wedding ring?”

Joseph grabbed Thomas by his shoulders, put some pressure on them.

“How could you be so sure it’s a wedding ring?” Thomas finally replied.

 _Huh, no denial._ Joseph hesitantly nodded, “Why would a man wear a golden ring if they’re not—”

“Does it look anything like this?”

When Thomas showed him the similar ring, Joseph grew wrinkles on his forehead, “Isn’t it Grandpa’s – wait,” his eyes widened, mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, “How is it possible?”

“I’ll go see him,” as he gained back his confidence, Thomas released himself from his brother, who was still in awe. He grinned mischievously before vanishing behind the wall, “—it’s not a wedding ring, and he’s not married,” Thomas stepped down the stairs in fast-paced, almost as rapid as his heartbeats. He got back to his bedroom, quickly changed his clothing, he wanted to look proper in front of that man. Schofield came for him, he took the trip down to reach his hometown; the thought itself sent a twisted sensation his body almost failed to contain. Thomas stopped running once he was right behind the living room and peeped through the doorway; recharging his courage, he presumed.

To find _him_ inside his house, chattering with his mother,

“You’re looking for me?”

William Schofield couldn’t hide his amazement when he heard Thomas Blake’s voice. The small talk he did with the owner of this place temporarily paused; say, maternal instinct was always sharper than any blade. Mrs. Blake only needed five seconds to comprehend the whole situation just by looking at how _happy_ his son was. She glanced back at his guest and found identical radiating energy – the way they shared no words at all but were able to transform emotion, convinced her that there was _something_ which transcended logic. The lady in a white dress stood up, smiled politely at Schofield and Thomas,

“You must be tired, William, how would you like some tea?”

“If it doesn’t bother you,” Schofield answered gently. His good-nature pleased her in a way he never should. He settled from his seat right away, “I heard you have a cherry orchard? May I see it?”

Mrs. Blake winked at her youngest, slight of mischief on her face. Now, Schofield knew who inherited Thomas that nature. She winked at her son, “Would you keep him company while I'm brewing some tea?”

“Yes, Ma,” Thomas kissed her temple before gestures Schofield to follow him.

He obediently trailed, passed the dining room, into an open terrace, until the view of several cherry trees appeared before them. It wasn’t big, but undoubtedly welcoming. Schofield recalled the same blossoms which chopped down by the Huns, not far from the farmhouse he left Blake – but now, the gruesome feelings were nowhere to be found. Here, with Thomas, Schofield found a strong sense of belonging. He was _him_ again, he was complete, it was secure to drop his guard to zero, to be called by his first name. Schofield didn’t know that he could feel this _safe_ to be addressed as simply ‘William’.

And this William was enjoying the comfortable silence between him and Thomas.

It was never his character to start a conversation first outside the café. He also thought that Thomas could do better. Alas, he wanted to talk about the tea, but he thought he would go into details and brewing techniques. Though he _knew_ not even the most talented barista could defeat a _mother_ —

“My mother doesn’t remember anything from the past,”

Thomas suddenly broke the quiet, as expected.

William could hear the uncertainty when Thomas mentioned ‘the past’, but he didn’t argue.

“Neither does my brother,” Thomas continued, “I tried to make them remember, or feel, or – well, at least I did whatever I could,” he shrugged casually, feet strolled lazily among the cherry tree, William was a few steps away behind him, “And I should admit that I spent two weeks here behaving like a madman.”

“You’re drunk,” the way William looked at him was intense and it made Thomas felt guilty, “I’m not sure whether to scold you or not – if you’re sober, you might’ve never told me where you live.”

“M’ sorry…” he looked down, voice cracked in apology, “I thought by not seeing you for some time, I could return to my usual self. I didn’t mean to—” Thomas sighed heavily, eyes still averted, he stared at anything but William’s blue eyes. This man would never realize how unbearable he was, even for Thomas and his big heart, “—Sco, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t know how you could be so sure and asked me to start over these things, I… How could you be so certain about this?”

William chuckled, “Funny it comes from you, for you were always the fearless one.”

“Not funny,” Thomas leaned against one tree, hands crossed on his chest, “What should I do?”

“Say, what do you feel about me?”

Thomas bit his bottom lip, “I don’t know.”

“What do you _think_ about us?”

“I… don’t know either.”

William laughed, “Same old brand new you – you never know, that’s your problem,” he stroke Thomas’ curly hair when the younger one frowned, “I get it, I was confused too. I almost gave you up, if only your editor didn’t randomly show up at my café and showed me _something_ he wasn’t supposed to.”

Thomas tilted his head, bewildered.

“Your draft.”

“My what – _oh,_ hey, that’s violating the rules!” panicked, Thomas could feel blood was flooding his face, creating an obvious shade of red, “Leslie, you bloody bastard…” he whispered in embarrassment.

“Say you don’t like me and I’ll leave,” said William, loud and clear, “Say that your writing isn't about us.”

“Sco, wait,” Thomas repeated the ‘wait’ in hisses. Still couldn’t see William in the face.

“Blake,” William showed his right hand, a band made of gold circling his ring finger. He took it off and gently held Thomas’ right hand, then put the sacred circled on his thick palm. The same ring encircled Thomas’ ring finger, and the one William wore _used to_ surround his little finger, a silent vow that he wasn’t interested in pursuing marriage. How ironic, the symbol of celibacy, turned into an impression of togetherness. Thomas shut his eyes. Took his time to gather his courage, to finally be able to face William, “Joe gave me this ring as a parting gift,” he explained dearly, “Before I came back to the 8th.”

Thomas was slightly quivering. That was something his big brother would likely do.

“The reason I come here, to you, is to return this ring,” _and perhaps, this ‘bond’ that bound us could release us_ , he couldn’t bring himself to say that, “The rest is up to you, you have the right to choose.

“But, please do remember that I liked you then, and I like you now,”

He wasn't near any good with words, so tightening his grip on Thomas’ hand was his answer, wishing a simple gesture could put him at ease. It worked like a charm. The time around them froze, but the clock inside their chest was slowly ticking. William could feel the softness of Thomas’ hand, fingers cradling gently on his slender ones, and suddenly, the ring he once discarded found its way to his finger. He held his breath, didn’t quite sure what just happened, only to find Thomas stared at him with overwhelming emotions in his eyes.

“You’ll regret having me, Sco, you know and remember how troublesome I was,” his trembling lips was so very tempting – William had to remind himself that he wasn’t supposed to kiss Thomas in his mother’s house, “I’m reckless, I can’t cook, I’m not a morning person, I’ll create such a ruckus in your café once I have to deal with the deadline,” he was _this_ close to crying but William soothed him by running his fingers through his hair, “Do you think you can stand having me around you, _again_ , Sco?”

William chuckled, “That won’t bother me.”

“No one will die this time, right?”

A flick landed on Thomas’ forehead, “Like I’ll allow that.”

Thomas grinned – as if a heavyweight just lifted from his shoulders, a sense of freedom and bliss he never really experienced before he reunited with this man. Now, they both understood the yearning inside their chest, the reason why they never fell in love, the urge to wander and find _something_. In each other arms, they were reborn. In each other eyes, they were _home_. William left a light, gratitude kiss on Thomas’ fingers and the ring on it, before letting him go and restore their distance into a more appropriate one. The tea was ready – and Thomas whispered into William’s ear before he ran inside the house.

 _Take it slow_ , he said.

This was not how a story end; this was only the _beginning_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T BELIEVE I EVENTUALLY FINISH THIS *emotional screeching*
> 
> Thank you SO much for you and you and you who read this until the very end. Thank you for supporting me and my lack of skill in writing in English (I'm Asian so pardon me for misinformation about... Anything, never been to the UK before). I'll just take a break and enjoy the growing AUs in this fandom. So happy we're moving on from the #majorcharacterdeath tags. 
> 
> If you're interested, let's have a massive fangirling time on twitter!
> 
> Lots of love!  
> [ghee](https://twitter.com/3Oghee)


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